


how far is a light-year

by windingwoods



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Family Feels, FatT NBslash Exchange, Other, gig is a florist somehow, loose sci-fi setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-06 03:29:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15877590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windingwoods/pseuds/windingwoods
Summary: It’s hot in the spaceport and the faux leather of the jacket they’re wearing feels foreign; it’s well-worn to the point of shiny smoothness, for sure, a tad too big around the shoulders (it sat snugly on Ballad, a second skin, and there’s no bitterness where they expect to find it festering) but tilting their face to hide in the popped up collar still comes natural to Echo, hands balled up in their pockets as they scan the crowd.





	how far is a light-year

**Author's Note:**

> my NB exchange piece for smallpolar_bear on twitter!  
> this was a real treat to write, i really hope you like it <33

The sound is still ringing in their ears by the time they make it to the spaceport, sharp and heavy with a finality Echo hadn’t meant to saddle it with when they slammed the door behind them. Or maybe they had, even if only for a split second, the flick of a wrist too quick to take back.

It’s hot in the spaceport and the faux leather of the jacket they’re wearing feels foreign; it’s well-worn to the point of shiny smoothness, for sure, a tad too big around the shoulders (it sat snugly on Ballad, a second skin, and there’s no bitterness where they expect to find it festering) but tilting their face to hide in the popped up collar still comes natural to Echo, hands balled up in their pockets as they scan the crowd. Now this, this is familiar, motions and tricks of the trade already engraved in their muscle memory. It’s simple enough to find what they’re looking for, and when they do it feels like such an easy catch they almost feel bad about it, at least before their brother’s expression flashes again before their eyes.

Docked a few meters away from them is a small cargo ship that appears to be almost ready for liftoff. It’s painted an inconspicuous, unfortunate mix of grey and green, all rounded angles, and the letters NMEBUUNX curl around both its sides in a neat font seemingly at odds with how the ship looks from the outside. Echo would think it’s a smuggler vehicle without hesitation if it weren’t for the guy standing by its (conveniently still open) rear entrance.

Bleached hair held back by a colorful headband with flowers embroidered on it, clothes that seem to belong to at least three different wardrobes, loud voice and louder laughter. He’s chatting with some of the spaceport staff like he doesn’t have a care in the world, back turned to his own ship, and Echo marvels for one brief, surreal moment just what kind of turn of events must have happened for a person like this to be in possession of a vessel like that. Under any other circumstances they’d get suspicious, maybe look for another ride, but the bile still roiling inside of them is enough to make them slip onboard undetected while no one’s looking, fluid and silent like they’ve been taught.

There’s some kind of irony in that, they guess.

The inside of the cargo hold is crammed with metal containers, nothing strange with that, but Echo’s done this in the past enough to immediately know the floor’s not at the level it’s supposed to be. Something about being right sends a thrill down their spine, but they squash it down as they start making their way through the containers, careful to stay hidden and looking for the signs they know all too well until they find it— a groove on the pavement in the shape of a panel in one of the corners. The fact that it’s not been covered in any way is… bizarre, at least, but Echo just shrugs and crouches, fingers heaving the panel up with practiced ease to reveal the space under the fake floor.

“Ah-ha,” they can’t help but whisper under their breath, then quickly descend the small set of rusty stairs before they can test their luck any further, closing the panel without a sound after they’ve crouched down properly. The place seems to have heating, which both reassures Echo that they won’t freeze to death in the cargo hold before the ship even makes it out of the atmosphere and confuses them even further about the nature of the loud guy with the ridiculous clothes and a ship apparently fit for smuggling living things. Well, they’ve got their sword and food and water, so there’s that.

They can take it.

 

***

 

Less than a full hour after liftoff, Echo hears what could only be described as a distorted whinny, coming from somewhere among the ship. They try to sit more upright, almost banging their head against the wall in the cramped space, and soon enough there’s the soft hiss of the door to the cargo hold opening. Echo tenses as an unmistakable voice booms across the room.

“Woah, alright, Duck— I get it! Tone it down a notch now, okay?”

Steps on the floor, some definitely not human, coming closer and closer to their hiding spot and Echo’s got this, really, maybe they won’t even have to use their sword, but they’ve been stuck in the same crouched position for so long their muscles are starting to ache and their pulse is quickening and _why_ does it smell like horse all of sudden.

“Here?” Echo hears the guy whisper, followed by some shuffling right above them. “I can’t believe how good your nose is, bud, pretty amazing stuff.”

Echo doesn’t even have the time to wonder what’s happening before the panel above them gets lifted, flooding them with sudden artificial light bright enough to dazzle them, the sting of pain digging deep in the space between their eyes. They’ve done this before, though, so they spring upwards before they can think too hard about the way their legs and arms will burst in pinpricks, swinging the heel of their open palm at the guy’s head. Something smooth catches their arm mid-motion and tugs them up, lifting them at eye level with what looks like the weirdest creature Echo’s ever seen. Also, their feet are dangling in the air now.

“What the _fuck_?” they blurt out at the same time as the guy yells, “Duck, put them down! Bad horse!”

The alleged horse makes the same weird whinny from before, something akin to annoyance in its tone, but still puts Echo back down on the pavement, careful not to drop them back in the hidden compartment. They decide to count that as a small mercy; also, it’s not like they haven’t met their fair share of weird alien animals. A horse named Duck with a prehensile mane is nothing compared to a talking snake made out of grass from a sentient planet.

“So, uh,” the guy starts once Echo’s regained their footing. He’s keeping some distance between them, hands clasped together like he’s not quite sure what to do with them, and Echo suspects he might be trying to give them space, as ludicrous as that sounds in this situation. “You a stowaway?”

“You a smuggler?” comes out of their mouth before they can think any better of it, words clattering everywhere like spilled marbles as the guy’s face twists first in surprise, then in what seems to be genuine embarrassment. Huh.

“Look, the ship’s not mine? I’m actually covering for this friend of mine, Grand, who…” He trails off, now frowning, a finger pointed in their direction. “You’re the one who has to explain themself here!”

His voice melts into Ballad’s, into their parents’ and the stranger’s eyes are Legato’s own, looking up at Echo with nothing but an endless expanse of confused frustration, then Echo blinks. And after blinking, they breathe. Unclench.

“I just— I needed a ride off planet, okay? You can kick me out.”

The guy arches an eyebrow. “In the middle of space?”

“I mean, no, I guess at your first pit stop? Don’t wanna drift away and die in the middle of the cosmic void, if possible.”

At that Duck (pretty messed up how they know the horse’s name but not the guy’s) lets out a huff Echo doesn’t have any better word to describe than derisive and the guy’s mouth takes on an apologetic curve. It doesn’t look at all like a good sign.

“We’re kind on a tight schedule, Duck and I,” he explains. “No pit stops, gotta fly straight to the Brink. Ah, but it’s a really cool place! You could go about your way from there, even though it’s kind of… backwater?”

“Backwater’s perfect,” Echo says, all too eager at the prospect of not getting arrested, then the realization hits them. They can’t help the look of mild horror that must have crept over their face. “Wait, how many days is it from here?”

They could swear Duck is smiling ear to ear as the guy says, “about a couple of weeks, give or take. Oh, I’m Gig by the way! What’s your name?”

Maybe it’s the notion of having to spend two whole weeks on a ship they illegally boarded with only a weird horse and a weirder man for company that’s dizzying them, but they don’t even think of giving out a fake name as they say, “Echo. Thanks for, um, the lift?”

Gig laughs, loud the way he had been with the spaceport staff, and it makes Echo feel the tiniest bit less dreadful.

 

***

 

It turns out Gig’s a _very_ talkative person, which means by the time it takes him to show Echo around the rather small ship quarters they’ve learnt far more than they ever wanted to know about him. He happens to be a florist of some sort, as well as an online personality, and he doesn’t seem to be the slightest bit fazed when Echo informs him they’ve never heard of the name Gig Kephart before. He tells them the containers he’s transporting are full of flowers in cryostasis (thank goodness they didn’t try to open those) and the reason he’s in such a hurry is that he needs to deliver them in time for two of his friends’ wedding.

“They’re both so stressed out about this,” he explains, a soft look in his eye while the other projects a holographic picture of two people, a woman with cat-like features and a person who seems to be qui err. “Fourteen’s gonna have a stroke if I’m late and then Tender will have to murder me on her own wedding day. Oh, but you should see the flowers!”

Before Echo can even begin to form a protest, the hologram flickers and shifts, now showing different types of flowers arranged in various decorations. They don’t know much about any of this, but there’s something lovely about the whole thing, they guess.

“It should look something like this,” Gig says, and the next moment the whole cockpit area is engulfed by the light, flowers hanging at every corner, held together by white ribbons and fake arches of painted wood. There’s muted blues and violets, reflected in the the soft glow of Gig’s organic eye, painting his skin and Echo’s too.

“Like what you see?” he asks, too quiet and expectant for Echo’s stomach not to do a flip at it. They look away, because there’s no way he’s flirting with them, random stranger, worst stowaway of the century and family disappointment; instead they focus on the bouquet closest to them, resisting the impulse to run a finger along the curve of the petals.

“Yeah,” they say, clear their throat when it comes out more choked than they’d hoped for. “This is nice.”

Gig brightens, then turns the room back to normal with a goofy wink at Echo. He pats them on the shoulder, once, and his hand is a solid pressure, warm through their too-big jacket. They try not to lean forward and recoil at the same time once he retreats, but something still slips past them anyway. “Uh, if you’re okay with it I could… help? With setting up the decorations, I mean. As payment?”

 _If you even trust me_ , sits heavy in their mouth, but before they can voice it and ramble all over themself some more, Gig’s back in their space, both hands on their shoulders now.

“You would? You don’t have to, just so you know. But— you would?” He sounds like a child on the first day of holidays, and Echo can’t help but smile.

“Sure thing.”

 

***

 

“You don’t get it!” The walls contort, twist in knots of bright reds, hard to look at. A spot of dark blue, braided hair swinging like a pendulum in the corner of their vision, tick tock like their heart, like the voice of the person in front of them. “This sucks, this fucking _sucks_.”

The smell of stew, red walls turning brown and yellow and liquid, collapsing around them with a sickening, sloshing sound, swallowing Ballad’s face up, mouth half-open, about to say something, anything. Then nothing.

Echo wakes with a start, coughing around the feeling of something clogging their throat. Their arm is stretched out, reaching in the direction their brother was just a moment ago, and where now is the muzzle of an alien horse, looking directly at them in the dark. They jump back in their haphazard blanket nest with a startled yell, only halfway smothered by the time they remember they’re in someone else’s ship and it’s simulated night time.

“Duck, I swear, never do that again!” they stage whisper, to which Duck answers but with a dejected gurgle and the gentle prodding of his forehead at the sheets. Echo isn’t sure whether he’s asking to be pet or trying to tuck them in, so they put a tentative hand on the expanse of his forehead, waiting for a reaction. In no time he’s making more of the same gurgles, happier this time, and rubbing against their hand like a satisfied house cat.

“There, there, good horse.” They settle with their back to the cool metal wall, letting their head loll with a sigh. “Did you know I was having a nightmare?”

Another gurgle, almost a whinny this time. “Yup, it sucked. Family stuff, you can imagine. I… think? You’ve got any family?”

Duck sways his head and Echo huffs, grits their teeth when the lump in their throat pokes back up. “Sorry about that, buddy. Don’t tell him, but Gig seems pretty alright company at least.”

“Um, that’s,” comes Gig’s voice from the door, and Echo nearly yells again. “That’s nice? I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on this private conversation between two buddies but I thought I heard you yelling so, the thing is, are you okay?”

Echo contemplates being dismissive, lying about it and just telling him to go back to sleep with a mumbled, stilted apology for waking him up, but Gig looks concerned and warm and tousled in the bluish darkness in all the ways that make their rabbit heart feel instinctively calmer by just looking at him. It would be unsettling in any other circumstance, but it’ll do to get Ballad’s face melting into grief out of their head, at least for the moment.

“Guess I’ve been better,” they say, grateful for the blankets they can wrap around themself like a cocoon, so that Gig won’t see the way they’re hugging their knees to their chest. “Sorry for waking you up, I just keep filibustering your wedding trip.”

Gig snorts, taking one step into the room. “You sounded like Kent right now! Hey, wanna watch anime? It helps me when I have trouble sleeping.”

Before they can answer that he’s already crossed the distance between them and is now crouching by their side, waving around what looks to be some sort of weird cube with a USB driver plugged into one of the many ports. It pulsates a gentle pink light.

“Do you have Marielda?” Echo asks, willing their body to relax before they extricate themself from the blankets and raise their arm for Gig to sit next to them in the cocoon. He takes the invitation, much to Echo’s relief and chagrin both, and starts hitting a few keys on the cube as he hums happily. “Man, that’s an old favorite of mine! Okay, we’re marathoning it and we’re going to have a blast.”

Echo hums back, less enthusiastic but already calmer than before. The cube starts projecting a screen in front of them and Gig’s elbow is brushing their arm. By the time they get to the third episode, they’ve drifted back asleep.

 

***

 

The next few days flow by in quiet stasis, a strangely comforting blur of waking up with the rise and fall of Duck’s side as their pillow, Gig’s morning greetings and space food already awaiting them at the table. It’s not too bad, tasty enough to take Echo’s mind off their father’s stew, and when they tell Gig that he laughs, explains they should thank Grand’s fixation with being inconspicuously luxurious for that. The way he says “inconspicuously”, with air quotes and dragged out vowels as he makes a show of sipping jeli juice in the dantiest fashion possible, makes Echo snort under their breath.

Then, on the fifth day of travel their eyepatch pings with the notification of a new text message. The icon signaling their sister sits in the middle of the screen, waiting to be acknowledged, and Echo could laugh at how unthreatening the cute pixel design looks. If their stomach weren’t currently in knots, that is.

But they know she’s only going to get more pissed if they don’t acknowledge her, so they take a deep breath and square up against whatever wall of text she might have sent, only to be met with one single line pulsating softly in front of them.

_[Legato, 21:39] are you alright?_

Echo blinks. They take the eyepatch off, pass it from hand to hand thinking about what to answer until it pings again.

_[Legato, 21:42] dont you DARE leave me on read i can see youre there_

_[Legato, 21:42] at least youre alive. mom and dad will be happy to hear that_

That sparks irritation inside of them, but before they can start typing away their anger the screen lights up.  
_[Legato, 21:43] ballad too_

“Come on, that’s just not fair,” they mumble, which seems to catch Gig’s attention. He contorts from his seat at the helm until his head is poking up from behind the backrest, which is kind of silly in a way that makes Echo want to tell him to go back watching the space in front of them but at the same time to ruffle his hair.

“What’s not fair? Is your eyepatch acting up?”

Echo scrunches up their nose. “You could say that.” They pause, put the eyepatch back on, try and fail to formulate a decent answer that won’t sound childish. It must have shown on their face, because they catch Gig turning the autopilot on from the corner of their eye; he stands up with an obviously fake yawn, then turns to look at them. Echo could swear he seems more fidgety than usual.

“I’m going to watch something to unwind, you want to— you want to pick? We can use my bed this time though, it’s big enough! And sleeping on the floor must suck, I feel kind of bad about that.”

“You feel bad for making a stowaway sleep on the floor?”

“I mean! Have you seen that _bed_? It’s the whole inconspicuous luxury thing all over again!”

That does pique Echo’s interest, as absurd as it sounds. They’ve started to relish every occasion to poke fun at this Grand Magnificent guy they don’t even know except from his very obvious smuggler spaceship and Gig’s exaggerated stories. So, because the prospect of laughing at some absurd bed right now sounds better than facing a heart to heart with their sister (who strangely enough isn’t blowing up their eyepatch yet), they follow Gig into his room.

The bed is, indeed, ridiculous: king sized, which strikes Echo as absolutely ludicrous given the small quarters, with far more pillows than it could ever be sensible and golden sheets. Gig is already sprawled on one side, fiddling with the cube from the other night, and he smiles up at Echo with an expression that screams I-told-you-so. “So? Isn’t it big for the both of us?”

“Alright,” Echo concedes with a sigh, making their way to the other side of the bed and plopping down on the mattress. “No take-backs if I end up kicking you in my sleep.”

They take their eyepatch off again as Gig turns the projector on, and let their head fall into one of the pillows. The mattress dips under them, soft and inviting.

_[You, 21:56] i’m okay._

 

***

 

For the first time, they wake up before Gig does.

It takes them a moment to remember in whose bed they are, another moment to adjust to the unfamiliar warmth behind them, then another to process every little detail. There’s the weight of Gig’s arm slung over their side, the light pressure of his feet against Echo’s, the tickling feeling of his breath on their skin where his nose brushes their nape. It’s weird, waking up like this with someone, but where they expect to find dread, urgency to get up and put as much distance as possible between them and him, there’s only a sense of calm, a slow lull like the coming and going of the waves in synch with Gig’s breathing. So they let themself have this one thing, closing their eyes again and letting the unfamiliar fade into familiar with each intake of air; the smell of clean sheets, sleep and Gig next to them slither their way in every nook and cranny of their mind, never quite feeling overwhelming, and Echo would wonder why if they weren’t so drowsy.

At some point, while they’re drifting in and out of consciousness, they hear Gig mumble something gibberish, followed by a sharp, chopped off sound. The arm around them goes flying as Gig probably scrambles to sit back into his own space and out of Echo’s if the sudden loss of a body against theirs is any indication. Before he can up and leave, Echo turns to face him, all the sluggishness gone as they cock one eyebrow.

“Oh,” Gig says, and if he sounds a little taken aback Echo’s going to count that as a victory, “you’re up. You were up.”

They shrug. “More or less.”

“Cool! Cool, I, uh—” He’s laughing now, raking his hand through his hair, and it’s not as confident as his usual laughter. It makes Echo want to say something, but they let him finish first. “Sorry about that? Turns out I take up more space than anticipated.”

At that, Echo speaks. “I didn’t mind. Or, I don’t mind.” A pause, Gig’s look of surprise. “It’s cute that you’re a clingy sleeper.”

They grin, which seems to switch the gears in Gig’s brain: the awkward laughter turns into an over-dramatic pout that’s almost a grin of its own and there’s a slight flush high on his cheeks. “Damn right it’s cute! _I’m_ cute!”

This time it’s Echo who laughs, louder than they have in a while, and they clutch at their own sides as they feel the rumbles shaking off the slithering immobility they hadn’t realized they were feeling ever since leaving home. They toss a pillow at Gig, who squawks and only makes them laugh more. It’s a scary thought to have on a two-week trip, but they could get used to this.

 

***

 

At some point the spaceship passes by a relay station close enough to allow anything more than text messages to come through. Echo’s sitting at the table poking at some porridge when their eyepatch starts pinging from where they’ve set it down next to their plate; they take a look, wonder if it’s Legato again, or maybe Iota, and almost fall off their chair when they see the icon on the screen.   
A quick look in Gig’s direction is enough to confirm he’s napping slumped on the pilot seat, so they do the only logical thing to do: they grab their eyepatch and rush to the bedroom, closing the door behind them. They take one moment to glare at the eyepatch before putting it on and accepting the call.

“Hey,” Ballad’s voice says in their ear, quieter than Echo was expecting. He looks different as well, five o’clock shadow peppering his jaw, tired eyes. It’s disquieting, yet still more familiar than the way he had looked the last time they saw him, pristine and far, far away.

They realize they’ve been staring, probably in unnerving silence since Ballad can’t even see them as long as they have the eyepatch on, so they clear their throat. “Hey.”

“Are you okay? I mean, I know you’re okay, Legato told me and you’re here talking to me, but are you— okay?” He slumps forward, pressing the heel of his palm against his forehead, then straightens back up with sudden urgency. “The data tells me you’re off planet, so… I mean, as long as you’re fine.”

“I’m going to a wedding,” Echo says, because it’s the truth and because the spark of bafflement in Ballad’s eyes makes it worth telling. “And yes, I’m okay, no need to worry about _me_.”

Maybe they’ve put too much vitriol in that, but they can’t take it back, not after it makes Ballad recoil backwards like he’s been hit. Only now it strikes Echo that he’s wearing their— his jacket that they gave back.

Neither of them says anything for a too long moment, until the static of Ballad’s slow exhale crackles through the speaker. “I didn’t take the job in the end,” he says, looking directly into their eyes across the black of space. “I thought about it… and I turned them down.”

“Oh.” Echo blinks once, twice; the words start to sink in and rearrange themselves in an order that makes sense. Again, “oh. I see.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Ballad’s lips are twitching, either the edge of a remark or the beginning of stressed out, wet laughter, and it makes Echo feel like they have to hurry, for some reason. Patch it up, make things better. Get their brother back.

“I’m glad,” they say in a rush, “I don’t… I was worried, and pissed, and scared. I’m just glad.”

Now Ballad’s smiling, open and earnest and everything Echo wanted. It makes something in their chest stutter and clatter as they mirror his smile: he may not be able to see it but he will hear it in their voice.

“I’ll see you once I’m back.”

 

***

 

“Hold on a second,” Gig says on their last night of travel. It’s late and Echo would rather crash for the night, but they humor him out of nostalgia for something that’s yet to happen. “If you’re coming to the wedding I need to know this. Can you dance?”

From his spot down the hallway where he’s munching on some apples Duck whinnies loudly, something in the sound Echo could swear resembles a drawled out “as if”. Their first instinct is to get back at him for that, as absurd as it seems; their second instinct is to hightail it out of the conversation, but that poses the logistics issue of not having anywhere else to go except for like, back in the cargo hold. So they square up, valiant and ready for option three: to stomp their feet as metaphorically as possible.

“Do I really _have_ to? I’m not even invited.”

Gig, unfazed by their pleading (the only person it’s ever worked on so far is Ballad, they have to admit), frowns at them. “I mean, no one’s going to force you if you don’t want to, but I… I mean, never mind. Time to go to sleep!”

He tries to side-step them and move into the hallway, but Echo is faster, grabbing his wrist before they can think any better of it. They’re dimly aware of the fact that they should let go, act like nothing happened and the two of them never had this conversation to begin with, except they can’t bring themself to do any of that.

“Wait,” they say, all too conscious of the way Gig’s eyes widen, of the rough skin of his palm where their thumb is resting. “Look, I know I’m just a random stranger who shouldn’t be here to begin with, and I know we probably won’t see each other again after I’m done helping you with the decorations, but I…”

They trail off, biting at their lip while they wrangle the words they want to say into coherence; pretty hard thing to do with Gig’s other hand grazing their elbow almost gingerly, like he’s waiting for them to go on.

At this point they might as well try, cards on the table and all. “It’s been nice, these last few days. I’ve had fun and— I guess I wouldn’t mind. Dancing.” A step closer. “With you.”

Gig’s hand is pressed to their arm now, steady but gentle, something they could back off with a simple shrug if they wanted to, so obviously Echo leans into the touch. They look up in time to see him wet his lips and it sends a spark down to the tips of their fingers.

“If you’ll have me,” they add in a whisper. The tension inside them comes loose the moment Gig gives them a sheepish smile, like a ribbon undone, and it makes Echo wish the room was lit up by the same holographic flowers Gig showed them on the first day before remembering they’re going to see them soon anyway. They stand on their tiptoes, free hand finding the bump of Gig’s collarbone, and picture the sway of a waltz as he leans down to brush the tip of his nose against theirs.

“Duh,” he says, laughing faintly, and his breath smells of fruity toothpaste. “You won’t disappear afterwards?”

Echo shakes their head, grins against Gig’s mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

***

 

It’s a lovely wedding and a lovely ride back.

**Author's Note:**

> come cry w me over fatt at soleiltxt on twitter


End file.
